


Satin Ribbons

by gabapple



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, NLA Canon, Nonbinary Character, Papakov, Pre-Series, Real World Consequences, SpooOOoky haLllOoOOweeEENnn story, Valentine's Day, Viktor is single and more than okay with that, but actually it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 21:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabapple/pseuds/gabapple
Summary: Viktor made a strong statement to the world by cutting his hair, and for the most part, it's been very well received. The judges and his sponsors really couldn't be more pleased. But as he spends his first Valetine's Day alone in three years, he realizes that he still has some adjustments to make to his new life.





	Satin Ribbons

**Author's Note:**

> This is NLA* canon and after Viktor's Firebird debut. I wrote it because it was Halloween and I wanted to do something spooky. This story has been part of our timeline for forever, but we never intended to tell it from Viktor's PoV, just give bits and pieces of it to Yuuri through other characters (which you'll see in NLA). But, here we are. A special treat while you wait for me to finish writing ch22. :) 
> 
> <3 all the love to Mamodewberry, of course, for being the other half of NLA. This wouldn't exist without her.
> 
> *NLA is Never Look Away, the Yuri on Ice companion novel with 100% more Viktor PoV and backstory, which can be read [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8997835/chapters/20547385) 
> 
>   
> 

* * *

 

_Saint Petersburg, Russia_

Viktor (19 years old)

 

“Are you sure you will be all right, Vitya?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Viktor pushed what he hoped was a smile, the skates through the loop of his track bag and hefting the lot of it over his shoulder. “I have an entire bottle of _Chateau Lafite_ waiting for me at home. And Makkachin, too, of course. I’ll be fine.”

“I could…”

“Coach, really. I’m fine.”

Yakov wasn’t convinced, but he nodded, concern flitting through his eyes even as he sighed in concession. It had been a long and hard eight months, but if Vitya said he was fine, he wouldn’t argue. That had been part of their agreement. “All right. But you call if you change your mind.”

“I will.” Viktor managed a more sincere smile at that, and stepped through the doors that led to the coat check. The snow hadn’t let up in spite of the holiday which was just as well; he didn’t intend to go anywhere once he got home. In fact, burrowing into a pile of soft blankets and sweaters sounded like the best possible way to spend his first Valentine’s Day unattached in three years.

Nice, quiet, and alone.

“Oh, Viktor, there’s mail for you.”

The front desk collected fan mail for many of the athletes that made the Sports Champion Club their home base. Viktor had come to expect a stack every few days, which he’d take home to not read or reply to. It had been easier before, but since his Firebird debut, things had been _complicated._ He hesitated. “Thank you, Yeva.”

“It looks like you have an admirer, Viktor.” The receptionist said, setting out a bundle of envelopes. “Good for you.”

The stack was thick, with red and pink cards slotted between the standard white, but nothing about it screamed  _admirer._ "Oh?"

“Yep. This also came for you.” She set a pale pink box on the desk with red satin ribbon tied in a delicate bow. “This is the third one, isn’t it? If it’s chocolate, I want some.”

Frowning at the box, Viktor began to shuffle the things in his arms to make room. “You didn’t happen to see who delivered it, did you?”

“Nope, afraid not. It was here when I got in.”

“So would Olga know?”

“Maybe.” Yeva leaned against the counter. “Just open it.”

“I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“Why not do it now?”

Viktor shook his head, scooping the envelopes into his long coat’s over-sized pockets and the box under his arm. “No. I need _something_ to do tonight. Happy Valentine’s Day, Yeva!”

“Happy Valentine’s,Viktor!”

He pushed past the heavy double doors and into the cold, bracing himself against the wind, and made his way down to the street. Was it safe to take the bus? The metro? Even if it was, he didn’t feel safe _enough_ to take that chance. Once he reached the station, he hailed a taxi, climbed into the back seat, and gave directions to his apartment.

The box with the satin ribbon in his lap might be perfectly innocent like the others had been. But Yeva was mistaken about one thing; it wasn’t the third, it was the twelfth.

Those had come to his apartment, left with the doorman as requested or put in the mail slots with the rest of the post. None of them were the same size or shape, but all had the same pale pink paper wrapped around box and lid, with the red satin ribbon to keep the boxes shut.

In each was an item and nestled in white tissue paper: an ivory handled hairbrush; a bottle of rose-scented perfume; a teddy bear; a heart-shaped box of chocolates; a pair of ballet slippers; a stationary set; lacy women’s underwear; a single, long-stemmed rose; a roll of black electrical tape; a white candle; and leather gloves.

Viktor Nikiforov didn’t have _admirers,_ he had _stalkers._  

There’d been no cards, no letters, no identifying marks other than the printed slip of paper tucked under the ribbon marked for Viktor Nikiforov. They’d been hand delivered by _someone._ Who it was and how they connected to each other he didn’t know, didn’t _want_ to know. He just wanted to forget it all and get home.

“Big plans for the night?” the cab driver asked, glancing back at him in the rear view mirror.

Viktor blinked at him, startled from his thoughts and the dark silhouette of himself against the back windshield. “What?”

“For Valentine’s Day. Someone like you, a famous athlete… you probably have a big date.” The driver smiled. “I bet that’s a gift for your lady, right?”

He looked down at the box again, resting in his gloved hands like a caged animal ready to pounce. “Uhh…”

The driver laughed. “Not so formal? Maybe hitting up a party, meet someone...”

“I’m just having a night in.”

“Nothing wrong with _that_.” The driver angled the mirror to wink at him. “Have her come to _you._ ”

Viktor turned his gaze to the window and the snowfall beyond, keenly aware of the way the his face tightened with his setting jaw. “Right. Exactly. A little wine, a little dinner…” He wondered if that was too soft. How was he supposed to word it? “Dancing.”

The man laughed like they were in on the same joke.

Viktor said nothing for the rest of the drive, just forced that same, tired smile that he did for the camera. At least the presumption made him less suspicious, he thought. Viktor’s schedule was rigid, his habits predictable. Anyone who paid any attention knew where he would be at any given time, any day of the week. It made his own life more stable, but easier for the wolves to track. There were days when he was sure that he was being watched; felt the eyes on the back of his bare neck, caught the glance of those who were staring just a little too long from around the corner, had to shake off the twisting nerves of the thought that no one _was following him._

They were and they weren’t. The paparazzi came after all celebrities in one way or another and from time to time. It was cyclical. The media loved it. They lived off of it. Journalists and reporters couldn’t survive without them. And it wasn’t all bad, either. That was fine. He could handle it. It was part of the job. His sponsors were a part of it, too, and fans likewise. All just a big part of what made the world keep moving…

“Good luck, Viktor,” said the driver, holding the door open for him once the tab was paid.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Viktor shouldered his track bag, skates, and box, and shuffled over the mountain of piled snow to get to his complex. “Uh, Happy Valentine’s Day.”

The man just smiled, nodding. It was just like Feliks all over again.

Inside the building, the doorman uttered his customary greetings, and Viktor did the same, setting sliding his bag to set against the wall so he could gather the post. “Anything interesting today, Orlov?”

The old man snorted. “Vitya. You see this forest here?”

Viktor looked to the desk which was, in fact, a bit of a hedge- roses, daffodils, lilies, azaleas and baby’s breath. “Festive.”

“They’re for you.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“Oh.” Viktor frowned. “How am I going to get these upstairs?”

“I’ll help.” The superintendent joined them, then, shaking his head. “I knew you were popular, but really, Vitya. Some forewarning would have been nice.”

“Uh. Sorry.”

“I’m kidding, really. Go ahead and get your mail, I’ll have them sent up to your apartment if you’d like, as per our arrangement.”

Yakov had been strict when it had come to selecting his apartment, and the search had been long and very thorough. They’d put good money into it, too, ensuring that all of the security demands would be met. That included all mail and packages being held by the Superintendent until Viktor had a chance to approve of it, and no visitors to see him unless he gave prior approval. Maybe it was excessive, but it had alleviated a lot of his stress.

“Sure. That’d be great, thanks.”

Once the new armful of mail had been added to the ever-growing stacks of unopened envelopes and the box on the coffee table, Viktor got tea brewing and took Makkachin back down the elevator.

“You’re still going out?” asked the doorman. “The storm’s just getting worse.”

“Makkachin has to go,” said Viktor, holding his arm to the wind, baggy in hand.

They didn’t go far, just to the crop of where the grass would have been in better weather at the edge of the walk. If it hadn’t been a blizzard, they might have gone on a nice, long walk. In the summer, they’d go on a run. He was looking forward to that come spring. They were so close the river, now. They just had to survive until then.

By the time he got back, the tea was ready and every available surface of his kitchen was covered with flowers. He fed Makkachin, then took the blossoms- lovely though they were -that were toxic to dogs, and set them on his tiny balcony. The snow would kill them, but anyone who knew him should have known better than to give him something that put his poodle in danger.

Viktor had his tea first, slowly shedding his winter wear as he wandered through the apartment, hanging up his coat, his scarf, discarding his boots. “What do you think, Makkachin? It’s Valentine’s Day. We could watch a movie.”

Makkachin looked up from his food bowl briefly, but then went back to eating, tail giving one little wag to humor him.

The windows rattled from the howling wind, and Viktor sighed. Valentine’s Day had always been one of his favorite holidays, even as a little boy. But even surrounded by roses, nothing felt right. Was it that he was single? No… He leaned in, brushing the petals of one of the crimson blooms, taking in its sweet scent. Even when he’d been with Niko, he’d always spent Valentine’s Day alone. School had made getting together difficult in the three years they’d been together. They’d had phone calls. They’d sent gifts. But Viktor had always been alone.

“I’m going to take a bubble bath, Makkachin.”

The poodle looked up at him again, sniffed the air once, then again went back to eating.

Viktor made sure that the front and back doors were locked and that the windows were secured before he started the bath, letting the thundering water drown out the wind and the other silence of his empty apartment. It was such a beautiful space, all his and Makkachin’s, with a big bedroom, a living room big enough to do yoga and dance, a kitchen and eating area, a master and half bath for guests, and a long hallway to decorate. He even had a walk-in closet to fill. It would take him forever, he knew, but he needed goals to keep him busy. So much space. Hardwood floors. Vaulted ceilings. Skylights. Big windows. Soft curtains.

A veritable tower. Safe. Secure. His, his, his. All his.

He went back for the bottle of wine and his single crystal glass, and found his current guilty pleasure- a book on Baroque architecture -and settled in for a nice soak. It was nice, he had to admit, not having to pull back his hair. There were advantages to the lifestyle he now had access to. Nothing had ever been so fine as the privacy of this tub, or the wine that he’d only been able to be gifted before.

The heat of the water soothed those aches of sacrifice; the wine numbed the pain of heartache. The tower kept him safe.

Even if he _was_ isolated.

Makkachin padded in when the storm got worse, windows shaking, lights flickering overhead. He set his chin on the edge of the rub, brown eyes worried, moping. Viktor put set the book aside and pet him, booping his nose with his knuckle.

“Are you worried?” he asked.

The dog leaned against his hand as if to answer:  _only about you._

Somewhere, out in the dark, there was a loud sound- loud, only because they were able to hear it, but the storm had it so muffled that they weren’t able to tell what it was.

“What do you think that-” Viktor began, but stopped when the lights went out. “Oh.”

Makkachin sat down against the tile and pressed his body against the tub with a huff.

Then it all was quiet except for the occasional drip of the faucet and the storm outside. No hum of the heater, or the refrigerator. Or whatever else usually kept his apartment running. The lights? He heard the gentle _tick tick tick_ of the wall clock, but couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything, as a matter of fact.

They sat like that for nearly two minutes before Viktor suggested that he do something about it, and Makkachin agreed by thumping his tail against the floor. His cell phone became a flashlight long enough for him to climb out of the tub, find his bathrobe, the real flash light that Yakov had put in the hallway closet, and the stash of candles and matches.

“I could just go to bed,” he suggested, to which Makkachin pouted at him. “What? It’s not _that_ early…”

It wasn’t, but then, he hadn’t finished his wine yet, either. Nor had he opened the latest box.

Though, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to, either. Yeva would ask, though. And if Yakov found out, he would want to know what had been going on. It didn’t seem like Niko, at least. It wasn’t his style. Too elaborate. It didn’t even make sense.

Viktor bit his lip and looked to his left, where his bedroom was, then to the right, with his living room- the roses, the other gifts, his mail, and the last mystery box. Then he looked down at his armful of candles. At least candles were romantic. And he _did_ need to finish his wine.

Sighing, he went to the living room and arranged everything as nicely as he could, creating as lovely an atmosphere as possible for the remainder of the four thousand dollar bottle of wine, then retrieved his fan mail. The stack took two trips to carry to the couch, and Viktor groaned with regret as he began sorting through envelopes. He used to love reading his mail, but before, it had been skating related, not political. Every other letter seemed to be about how he was either an inspiration- which he appreciated -or a backstabbing sellout and a betrayal to the cause. He skimmed the letters, thumbing through to find kernels of positive, separating them into piles while Makkachin squirmed into his lap and nosed his hands further from him.

He’d only managed to get through ten minute’s worth before the bottle of wine was nearly gone. Viktor sniffed. The letter pile looked just as large as ever, if not even bigger than before with the rubber bands that had held it together gone. He turned to the box, desperate, and set his wine glass aside. Perhaps there was something nice this time. Or at least it might explain some things. Give an identity, let him file a restraining order.

There was no point in waiting any longer at any rate. Really, it was silly. He was nineteen. A grown man. Sort of. He leaned over the box, running fingers over the smooth paper sides. It was about the size of a shoe box if he had to guess, only a little taller. It was the right width for hiking boots. The box was far too light to be skates, but skate guards maybe? Or custom blades? He’d said on more than one occasion that he’d wanted gold blades someday, could this be them?!

Just the thought had Viktor eagerly reaching for the ribbon, tugging at the forked tongue free from its bow. The satin fell away from the box and Viktor pulled held his breath as he tugged the lid free.

Inside, just as the other boxes, was a layer of white tissue paper. Underneath that was a soft and glossy wig of silver human hair.

 

The superintendent stayed with him until Yakov could get there, making assurances that yes, they could direct any personal mail in the future to his coach and, yes, they would have the security footage reviewed. The hardwood floors were cleaned of the shattered glass and wine, the couch righted again, and every door and window secured. Once the status of the power was checked on, the mysterious boxes were set next to the front door so that Yakov could look at them before they were reported to the authorities. 


End file.
